


pressing matters

by graywhatsit



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Assault, Cell Phones, Developing Relationship, Drunk Dialing, Midnight calls, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27813376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: You keep getting calls from Mark. You’re just trying to get some sleep.
Relationships: (it’s actor and implied), Damien | The Mayor/Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), Mark Fischbach/Y/N | The District Attorney
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	pressing matters

**Author's Note:**

> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr!

It was a long, tiring day at work. Being a deputy district attorney is no easier than being just an attorney, especially when you’re gunning for something higher up the ladder. Then, once you left the law office, ready for a quiet evening with Mark— not your first choice for dinner partner, who is incredibly busy at the moment, but still a friend who asked for your company— to relax, he pounced on you with his own set of demands: help with a new role, in some upcoming film about... whatever it’s about. You still aren’t sure, honestly.

He didn’t cease through your already-agreed-upon dinner, going on and on between mouthfuls hardly even considered before shoveled into his mouth. At least he has the grace to  _ almost _ finish chewing before plowing ahead.

But, finally, you managed to cite your need for sleep, promising to pick back up on the tangent the next morning.

Working late can have perks— like a free weekend.

He wasn’t the happiest, but allowed you to head out the door with a slightly annoyed, though genuine, good night.

After a change into something cleaner and more comfortable, you dove into your bed and nearly fell asleep before you even turned your bedside lamp off. Finally: hard-earned, blissful,  _ wonderful _ rest.

Which is why, when your phone chirps and whistles and rings with the most obnoxious yet fitting song you could think of, you are deeply confused about why it’s so dark.

You blink, bleary, with heavy eyelids. The ringing doesn’t end, just starts over, light flaring from the screen.

“What in the  _ fuck _ ,” is what you want to say, but it just comes out as a grumbled slur as you extricate one arm from the covers to grab it.

Without thinking, you just swipe to answer— if you don’t, whoever it is might try again, and this is faster. “Hm?”

“Well?”

You frown. That’s a bit too familiar... “Who-“ You pull back your phone to look at the name, squinting against the glare. “Mark?”

“Of course! Who else would it be?”

Your eyes flick up to the very top of the screen. It’s three in the morning. “At this hour? Hard to say. Um...” You scrub at your face with one hand, still half-asleep. “Did something happen?”

“ _ Yes _ , something happened!”

That gets you sitting upright. “What? What happened?” You push your blankets off, reaching out to flick on the lamp as you stand. “Do you need me to come over? What  _ do _ you need? I’m-“

“Did you even see my texts?”

Halfway to your bedroom door, you pause. “... what?”

“My texts!” He sounds indignant— he might just be pouting on the other end of the line. “I texted you a lot of stuff and you didn’t reply, so-“

“So you thought you’d call me?  _ At three in the morning?”  _ You pull the phone back, swiping through screens until you reach your messages. “This had better be-“

There are a whole host of messages from Mark. Some long, some short, but all of them very recent.

Questions. Question after question about the direction his monologue should take, what would make a good impression. As if he doesn’t already know all of that.

You grit your teeth, take a breath in through your nose, out through your mouth. Remember: he’s a friend, so you care about him.

“Mark.”

“It’s important that I get it all done soon— there’s a deadline and—“

“You won’t make it short on sleep,” you counter, holding your patience around you like a cloak. Or a restraining belt of some kind. “Go to bed. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“But-“

“ _ Mark _ .”

Mark doesn’t reply for a moment, and then he sighs. “No, you’re right. You know me, I can’t put work down.”

“No, you can’t.” Still, that makes you soften. “Come on. You’ll have plenty of time. Good night.”

“Yeah, good night.”

You don’t get interrupted again, and you help him go over it all in the morning, as promised.

He has real promise in broad daylight, and he grins, delighted, when you tell him as much.

————

Things settle back down after your free weekend.

Work smooths over, your preparations for an upcoming case more manageable after busting your ass last week. You stop coming home exhausted, which is the very least you could ask for.

It’s nice, relaxing on your couch with light still streaming in the windows.

It’s nicer, still— after your initial shock— when Damien joins you one evening for dinner.

You’ve been good friends for far too long to stand on ceremony, or even much pleasantry. The shock comes only because you weren’t expecting it.

“You know,” you say, lightly, listening to him clatter around in your kitchen, “I gave you a key for emergencies.”

“I missed dinner last week,” he explains. “Really, my friend, spaghetti in one pot? Have you no decency?”

“Missing one dinner is an emergency?” You frown at him as he strides— yes, strides; today must be a good day— back to you with a full plate. “And if you want something else, feel free to make it yourself. You have no room to question my decency,  _ burnt toast _ .”

Damien sits down beside you, balancing his plate in one hand. “I never claimed to be a chef. Your spaghetti is wonderful and exactly what I needed.” He takes a forkful. “Is that any better?”

You huff, but slouch further into the cushions of your couch, not bothering to move when your knee knocks into his. “Did you just come over to eat my dinner and question my cooking at the same time?”

“I came to eat dinner  _ with  _ you and enjoy your company.”

Damn his sincerity. You twist your face closer to a grimace, hoping to hide your pleased smile. “Sure, you did. At least you come at a decent hour.”

You catch his concerned glance around his fork and wave a hand. “Ah, nevermind. It was just a… nevermind. You want to watch something? Might be our last chance for a while.”

With all of the work you have to do, you aren’t sure when that next chance might be. Unfortunate, but… well, you made your choices in life. As irritating as the consequences of those choices might be.

His knee nudges yours, and you find that he’s at least  _ trying _ not to think about those exact consequences, given the slightly-strained smile on his face. “I’d love to.”

You don’t stay up into the wee hours like you used to, back in college. You have important duties to fulfill and you’re growing a touch too old to just stay up forever, but…

He hesitates in leaving, and you hesitate before letting him.

You’ll see each other the next day. Or the next.

Just in a decidedly different context.

\--------

You’re startled out of a dream you barely remember a few days later, the phone inordinately loud with its cheery, obnoxious ringtone.

You know you chose it for that exact reason; something irritating is better at grabbing your attention than something pleasant, after all, but ugh, is it too early for this.

Yes, it is. The clock reads two-thirty, and, just under it-

“Mark.”

“You remembered me this time, great job!”

If he’s mocking you or truly congratulating you, you’re too out of it to tell. “I have work in the morning. What do you want?”

“Work, work, work— all you do is work!” Something crunches. “Such a workaholic. You need a break, my dear.”

“You’re one to talk,” you grumble. His overly-cheery voice was irritating enough without… whatever the hell he’s eating. “What is that? Why are you calling me?”

A new, fresh crunch. “Popcorn. I’m rewatching one of my old films, and wouldn’t it be fun if we both watched it together? Like old times!”

“... good night, Mark.”

You hang up.

It’s one thing if he’s anxious and kept up all night by it; hell, you’ve been in that exact same headspace more times than you could possibly count. Annoying as it might be, you’re glad to help a friend through such a time.

This, though?

He has a wife. If he really needs the company, really needs the ego boost— he doesn’t, at all— why not ask for her presence? Celine might be prickly on occasion, but you know she loves him.

You were at their wedding, for goodness sake.

If he asked her nicely, or waited for tomorrow—

Your phone rings, again. After a moment of debating whether or not to just let him ring through, you sigh and answer. “Mark, I am trying to sleep!”

“This is one of my favorites,” he says, completely oblivious to your frustration. “I think I really got to sink my teeth into this— oh, and the action! It looks so good, here’s the part where—“

“Go find Celine or just go to bed!” You take a breath. “Don’t make me silence my phone. Let me sleep,  _ please _ .”

You don’t wait for his reply, just hang up and place your phone back on the nightstand.

You wake up to your alarm and one message, not so long after you must have finally drifted off.

_ Good night. _

————

It isn’t often that you have a free day together.

Damien, when not working at his own practice or on city council, is focused on an eventual bid for mayor— campaigning is his new hobby. You’ve been taking case after case after case, unable to shut off for fear of losing your edge, wanting to climb up the ladder.

Privately, you think Mark’s comments are right. You  _ are _ a workaholic, and so is Damien.

But you’re here, and he’s here, with an entire free afternoon and evening, and by God will you enjoy it.

You don’t remember the last time you saw a movie in the theater, rather than in snippets between documents. Maybe it was the last time you had popcorn, or a soda.

But now your fingers are salty and buttery, the flavor of soda on your tongue, and the lingering warmth of Damien’s arm where it was pressed against yours during a brief armrest battle.

You think he let you win. You wouldn’t have minded if you shared.

And it hits you as you walk around outside, unwilling to part yet unsure of what to do, that this could be a date.

You want it to be.

Take his hand, or slide under his arm, or even just tease him for trying to be gentlemanly by paying.

It doesn’t have to be a friendly outing, if you could just—

“Have you spoken to Mark, recently?”

The question comes out of nowhere, interrupting your train of thought— and whatever you’d managed to gather of your courage. Bringing Mark up is one way to halt a certain mood, you suppose.

The pensive concern on Damien’s face doesn’t help. “Well,” you start, slowly, because saying outright exactly what has been going on between you and Mark these past few weeks might be… suggestive, at best, “Yes, I have. Why?”

The look doesn’t change, but sharply turns your way. “You have? Has he been acting strange to you?”

“More than usual?” The joke falls flat, even to your ears, and you sigh. “I… he wasn’t, or didn’t think he was, but the last time we spoke he seemed off. And he’s been persistent.”

“Persistent?”

Well, now you’ve done it. May as well before Damien gets any more concerned— God knows he doesn’t need more stress in his life.

You pause to consider your words at the crosswalk, watching the little red hand closely. A sign to stop before things get out of control, or simply a coincidence? As it changes over to a stick figure, you shake off the strange hesitation. You don’t believe in signs, not like that. 

“He’s been calling me a lot,” you start, halfway across the road. “Repeatedly, sometimes, for the strangest things, at the strangest times.

“The first time, I thought it was just nerves. We’d been talking over his script and I suppose it kept him up all night— and I didn’t mind that much,” you add, quickly. “I like to help, and I’ve done the exact same thing to you before.”

“If I had a nickel for every late-night worry you called me over—“

“As if you need any more money,” you interrupt, grumbling, and Damien laughs.

It doesn’t last, though, as he quickly sobers and asks, “After the first time, though?”

You curl your fingers into the cuffs of your sleeves in awkward discomfort. “Like I said: strange things, strange times. How to fix his TV, if I wanted to watch a movie with him— and texts, as well, and you know he isn’t fond of brevity.” You nearly pull out your phone to show him before you think better of it. Mark says so much there’s bound to be something secret in there. “I imagine you’ve gotten a few, too, especially after the way I responded sometimes.”

His expression has gone from sober to stony, an odd set to his jaw. “No,” he admits, to your surprise. “I haven’t. That’s why I asked if you’ve talked to him— I haven’t heard a word.”

“What?” That doesn’t make much sense at all. You’d think a man so drama-prone would revel in the chance to complain about someone being short with him. “Not even to you? You’re his best friend— his brother, now that he and Celine are married. You’ve heard  _ nothing _ ?”

Damien shakes his head. “Nothing. Radio silence. From Celine, too, but she’s always been that way. She’s a busy woman.”

No busier than her brother who always responds, but you won’t say as much for the sake of neutrality. “I don’t know why he’d pick me to bother— I  _ say _ bother— no, I  _ mean _ bother.“ You sigh again. “I’ll ask him next I get a chance, if I’m the only one he’ll talk to.”

“Damn you for being approachable.”

You give him a look, but there’s a glimmer of humor to his words, the barest curve of a smile fighting through the concern. “You’re approachable, too. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That you are.” The smile widens, his eyes warm when they meet yours. “I’m delighted with such wonderful company.”

“I’m honored you’ll have me.”

You don’t really think about it, caught up in the easy back-and-forth, so natural to you by this point in your friendship. You don’t think about it until a few seconds later, where he doesn’t speak but  _ looks _ at you.

It wasn’t supposed to be…

Yes, you wanted to say something, but…

“Only if you’ll have me,” he says, very quietly, and—

Oh. Oh.

As far as not-quite-but-not- _ not _ -confessions go… you could think of a lot worse. “Damien?”

He glances down, which prompts you to do the same. Where your hands are, where your arms have been bumping into each other since you sat down in the theater. Since he picked you up. After a few careful, hesitant brushes, your fingers catch. “Alright?”

His hand is bigger than yours, warm but not too tight around your fingers. “Yeah,” you reply, and it comes as a whisper. “Yeah, that’s… that’s wonderful.”

That’s the most that happens, but he holds your hand until you part ways at your home.

————

Nothing actively changes for the two of you. Your not-confession doesn’t magically give you more time to see each other, and you were always affectionate friends outside of your banter.

It’s more… now you know what you’re feeling is both reciprocated and known.

It’s comforting. Less terrifying than the harassment you might face should you be public about it.

Why did you both have to be public officials?  _ Workaholic _ public officials with  _ aspirations _ .

Sometimes the nice thought of your growing relationship helps you to sleep, but not tonight. Tonight, your head spins with what-ifs, potential futures that decrease in probability every second, with the singular annoyed complaint of  _ why now? _

So, you toss and turn. It’s way too late for you to be awake, but your brain won’t shut off, and the constant checking of your clock doesn’t help.

Still, it surprises you when your phone rings— though, considering Mark’s name is front and center on your screen, perhaps it shouldn’t. You swipe to answer; even if it’s late, you have a bone to pick with him, anyway. “Hello?”

“You… you answered. You would, y-you always do!”

He sounds… off. Slow and slurred, not his usual controlled charms. He sounds… “Mark, did you drunk dial me?”

“No one else,” he continues, entirely ignoring your question. “Every… everyone is on  _ their _ side, but... you, you always listened. You care about me.”

You sit up properly, more confused with each word out of his mouth. “What— what are you talking about? Are you alright? What’s going on?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, then a shaky, deep inhale. “You wouldn’t know,” he mutters, so softly you almost can’t parse it. “Those two— they ran off together. I saw, I saw it this time, this whole time they were fucking behind my back and I just saw it  _ now _ .”

“Who—“ The realization hits you just as you say it. “Celine? Oh, Mark, I’m so—“

“Not just her!” His shout is followed by another supposed-to-be-steadying breath. “No, but  _ him. Will. _ ”

You aren’t as familiar with Will as the others, but you’ve seen him on occasion, and you could be called acquaintances, if not tentative friends. A bombastic man, you remember, with outrageous moves on the dance floor— the one at their wedding.

A man just as much Mark’s brother as Damien.

“Mark—“

“And I—“ He laughs, only a little hysterical. “I was giving him money! Money for his trips, his hunts, and what was he doing with it? Taking Celine along with him!”

Jesus… You hadn’t expected all of this at three in the morning, but at least you’re awake enough to deal with it. Or, try to. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mark, that’s awful, but please— try to take some breaths, maybe get some water. It’ll help in the long run, and once you’re a little calmer we can talk about it, okay?”

He scoffs on the other end, but his voice is soft when he says, “You always try to take care of us, don’t you? Of me.”

“Of course I would. You’re my friend.” For all the shit he’s put you through, that’s true, still. “Since college: you and me.”

“You and me,” he echoes, almost wistful. After a few seconds— you’re assuming he’s going to do as instructed, from some of the shuffling on his end— he says, “Why— why don’t you come over?”

The question surprises you so that all you can muster in response is a surprised, “Huh?”

“Come over,” he repeats. “Here. You’re always… always so sweet and  _ there _ , but you could be  _ here _ . If you were, I—“

“Mark, it’s—“ You stop even your own interruption. It wouldn’t be a bad idea, not if he’s in such a state. Drunk and despairing, he might… do something reckless. “Ah, okay, okay, but it’ll be a while. Listen, since he’s closer, why don’t we ask Damien, hm? He’s been worried about you, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

There’s a frustrated snarl from Mark’s end. “Him? He’ll side with his sister, he always does! If she cut my heart out, he’d still try to help her!”

Incensed on Damien’s behalf, you scoff. “Mark! He’s a good man! He cares about you!”

“And you just believe that. You just believe him. Why?” His words edge a little colder, but shakier. “Why him? Why have you always followed  _ him _ ?”

“You aren’t making any— listen, I’ll call, you shouldn’t be—“

“I want  _ you _ . Not him, not anyone else. You listen— don’t you care? Don’t you want me, too?”

You swallow against hot shame, though you know better. “That isn’t a fair question and you know it. I want to help but I can’t do it alone, and it sounds like—“

“Like?”

“... Like you’re making me choose. Don’t make me choose, Mark.”

The other end is quiet for a moment, before he chuckles, low and bitter. “But isn’t that what your boyfriend always says? Life is ours to choose. I’m choosing to ask for help, to reach for you like I always have.”

“This isn’t right—“

“This is your choice,” he continues over you, spiteful and icy. “Help me, come to me, right now, alone, or don’t come at all.”

A shiver runs up your spine. There’s an undertone you hadn’t noticed, and now it makes you sick. You might not be known for thoughtful behavior, but you do have a self-preservation instinct, and whatever is waiting for you at Mark’s home… you don’t like it. “I want to help you, but I can’t do that. Please, I don’t have to call Damien, I can call a therapist or- or a doctor, or whatever else.” Ice forms in your veins. “Mark, please don’t hang up the phone. Please.”

“... Good night, my dear. I hope you sleep well.” The line cuts out.

“No- Mark? Shit!”

You redial. Nothing.

You redial a second, third time. A fourth. Nothing.

You send a text.

You call again, this time the house phone Mark still insists on having.

Nothing.

Shaking with horror, you call Damien, already struggling with your shoes and a jacket. “I think— I think Mark— he’s going to—“

“Shh,” he responds, still groggy but firm, gentle. “It’s alright, it’ll be okay. I can call for emergency, you stay put.”

“But I—“

“My darling.” He keeps his voice calm, soothing, though he must be out of his own mind with worry. “You can’t drive like this, and we can’t just hail a car to his house. We’ll call emergency, stay on the line. We won’t be of any use if we go as we are.”

It isn’t until you get an all-clear call, perhaps an hour later, that your horrified tears abate. You stay up the rest of the night, though, shaking.

What happened?

————

For all that Mark is alive and whole— no obituaries, no updates to the contrary— he makes good on his word; you don’t hear a thing from him for months. Complete silence, even to you.

You reach out, but your sleep remains uninterrupted. Your working hours aren’t plagued, either.

It’s as though he’s completely disappeared.

You know better than to think it’s your fault, but logic plays little role in affairs of relationships; you grow further apart from Damien, citing the need for focus on your careers instead of the gnawing intrusive thought of ‘your choice’.

It wasn’t your fault.

But what if it was?

In October, though, you get a message.

Seriously, through the mail, old-fashioned parchment and stationery and calligraphy in bold cranberry on cream. Your name, and your new title, District Attorney.

An invitation to Markiplier Manor. Him, once more reaching out for help.

Your friend is alive and well and  _ trying _ .

Now that he’s calling again, you won’t ignore it like last time.

He’s calling. You’re going to answer.


End file.
